Occasion of Revenge Page 13

  I called ahead and she met me at the door of her apartment in the Ginger Cove retirement community wearing blue jeans, a pink turtleneck sweater, and a man’s white shirt buttoned up the back like a smock. An orange bandanna covered her short, gray hair. She held a paintbrush in one hand. “Excuse my appearance,” she apologized. “I hadn’t forgotten you were coming, Hannah, but I wanted to work a bit more on this painting. Come on in. Let me show you.”

  I handed Ms. Bromley her present, an oblong package wrapped in silver paper and tied with a fancy gold ribbon. I’d bought the wrapping as a kit at the grocery store. “Merry Christmas, Ms. Bromley. This is to put under your tree.”

  “How thoughtful, Hannah. Thank you, although I don’t have much of a tree this year, as you can see, just this little bush.” She accepted the package and placed it on a small, round table underneath a white-painted branch resembling reindeer antlers from which red-and-green glass ornaments hung. “But this will certainly look jolly underneath it.”

  Ms. Bromley led me to an easel set up in her dining alcove, which was surrounded by windows on three sides. She pointed with the wooden end of the brush. “There! What do you think?”

  She had painted some exquisitely lifelike geraniums in a Mexican earthenware pot. “I love it,” I said, truthfully.

  “That’s good, because the painting’s for you! Merry Christmas.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t! That’s way too generous!”

  “Of course you can. It’s the least I can do after all you’ve done to catalog my books.”

  I felt guilty, because I hadn’t set foot in the St. John’s College library for at least two weeks. I still had a month’s worth of work to do before the extensive collection of mystery novels Ms. Bromley had written over the course of a fifty-year career would be completely processed into the library’s Special Collections section.

  I perched gingerly on the arm of a chair and admired the painting. Suddenly the pottery vase I had bought for my friend—I thought she might use it as a paintbrush holder—seemed woefully inadequate.

  Ms. Bromley used a rag to squeeze excess paint out of her brush, then turned to me. “Come talk to me while I clean up.”

  I followed her into the modest kitchen and watched while she lathered up with soap and scrubbed her hands using a fingernail brush shaped like a pig to coax the paint from beneath her fingernails. She dried her hands thoroughly on a towel, then beamed at me. “So, what’s new with you?”

  I thought the last thing in the world I wanted to do was to wipe that cheerful smile off her face. “Well, you know me,” I said. “Never dull. Can we sit down?”

  She looked at me with dismay. “Such a long face! I think you need some coffee. Decaf or regular?”

  Normally I would have chosen decaf, but under the circumstances, I thought I could use something stronger. “High-test.”

  Ms. Bromley started the water gurgling through the filter, then invited me to join her on the living room sofa. “OK. So what is it?”

  “Do you want the bad news first, or the bad news?”

  The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. Clearly she expected me to follow this quip with a joke. I took a deep breath. “The bad news is that my father just got engaged to a totally unsuitable woman.”

  “And …?”

  “And the bad news is that she’s dead.”

  Ms. Bromley’s eyes grew wide. “My goodness! How did she die?”

  “The police think she was murdered. An overdose of clonidine.”

  Ms. Bromley sank back into the goose-down cushions. “Clonidine? Hmmm. I know about clonidine. Hard not to, living in a place like this.”

  I explained about Darlene’s normal blood pressure readings, about the peppermint schnapps, and about the empty glass the police had found in the bathtub.

  “So, any one of the guests at the party could have slipped the medicine into the bottle, right?” She blinked. “Any fingerprints?”

  “There could have been a hundred fingerprints on that bottle.” I turned on the sofa to face her, tucking a foot between me and the cushion. “But what really worries me now is that my father has disappeared.”

  I told her about the suspicious hit-and-run and that the police had found my father’s car at BWI. She looked thoughtful. “Nobody knows your father better than you do. If you want to find him, I’d advise going to the last place he was seen and try thinking like he would.”

  While Ms. Bromley went to fetch the coffee, I considered her suggestion.

  “Do you have a recent picture of your father?” she called over her shoulder.

  “I don’t think so.” I heard the rattling of the cups as she arranged them on a tray. “Wait a minute! Emily had one of those disposable cameras and was using it to take pictures of Chloe at the party. There may be a snapshot or two of Dad on the roll.”

  “Perfect! And if they were taken at the party, he’s likely to be wearing the same outfit as when he disappeared.”

  After she served the coffee, Ms. Bromley excused herself and went to the bedroom that I knew served as her office, returning in a few minutes carrying a familiar volume, the Physicians’ Desk Reference. With the book balanced on her knees, she leafed through it to a series of color photographs. “Here we are.” She stabbed at the page with a stubby finger, its cuticle outlined with a trace of red paint. “Look here. This is clonidine. Have you ever seen any pills like these before?”

  Still holding my cup, I scooted closer to her. Clonidine hydrochloride seemed to come in three sizes. The 0.3 tablet was slightly oval and a light brownish-pink. The next size down was the 0.2 pill, a pale burnt orange tablet about the size of an Advil. The smallest, 0.1, was a taupey color. I tried to memorize the markings in case I should ever see them again.

  After we’d finished reading the complete description of the drug in all its gobbledegooky glory, Ms. Bromley snapped the book shut and laid it on the floor next to her feet. I picked up my coffee, took a sip, and sloshed the warm liquid around in my mouth, enjoying the taste of fresh ground beans, natural sugar, and half-and-half before swallowing. “I see you didn’t give all your reference books to the library.” I peered at her over the rim of my cup. “I thought you’d retired old Charlie to the Florida Keys, Ms. Bromley.” Charlie Mackey was one of Ms. Bromley’s several sleuths, a Cleveland-based bookstore owner with a checkered past. “Don’t tell me …”

  She smiled at me slyly. “You never know, Hannah. The other day I read the most interesting article …” She waved the thought away. “But we can talk about that later. What you need to do now is get that film developed and get yourself out to the airport.”

  I hated going through Emily’s things, and she would have hated it, too. Five years ago there would have been a sign on her door—Danger: Nuclear Fallout Zone—and I wouldn’t have dared to go in without her permission. Back then, she’d have thrown a tantrum, and the next thing we knew, she’d be calling from a truck stop in Des Moines, Iowa, begging for bus fare to get herself back home.

  Even though Emily had mellowed considerably with age, marriage, and motherhood, I still stood outside her room and thought about it for several long minutes before opening the door. Fortunately I didn’t have to do any rummaging because the camera was sitting on the Ikea desk Emily’d used since junior high. Then the desk had been littered with cosmetics and bottles of nail polish in colors named “Sludge” and “Acid Rain,” but now it held a pile of clean, neatly folded baby clothes, a box of hypoallergenic baby wipes, a tube of zinc oxide ointment, and several paperback books. I picked up the instant camera and decided it was worth sacrificing the three pictures remaining on the roll. The new Emily would certainly understand.

  I usually took my film to Ritz Camera in the Annapolis Mall, but in my present mood, I didn’t think I could tolerate the relentless Christmas cheer being cranked out over the sound system while I waited the hour or so it would take to have the film developed. So I drove to the Giant Mall on Riva Road instead, dropped off the
film at MotoFoto, then walked a couple of doors down to House of Hunan for some serious comfort food: hot-and-sour soup. An hour later, with my mouth still tingling, I picked up the finished photos and took the packet to my car. I started the engine, turned on the heat, and relaxed against the seat.

  For some reason, I was almost afraid to look at the pictures. I had brought along a waxed paper bag of those crunchy doodads you’re supposed to sprinkle on top of your hot-and-sour soup, so I munched on one, then another, fingering the packet of photos between bites and chiding myself for being such a coward. Finally I ran out of doodads and excuses. I tore open the packet.

  Most of the pictures were of Chloe. I lingered over the pictures of my granddaughter longer than I ought, but I’m a grandmother; it goes with the territory. There was Chloe looking darling in a red headband with poinsettia trim; Chloe grinning at the camera, her chin covered with chocolate. In a third picture, Dante held Chloe up in front of our tree and I realized, with a pang, how much Chloe took after her father, especially when she screwed up her cute little nose like that.

  I sorted the pictures into three piles on the passenger seat. Of the twenty-four pictures that had been exposed, ten were of Chloe, one was of me with my eyes shut (pitch that one!), and the rest were photographs taken at the party. Among the party shots, there were two of Paul, one of Chloe napping on the sofa, and several of Daddy himself. I selected a particularly fine close-up of Daddy standing next to Darlene in her kitchen. Darlene’s artificial curls rested lightly on his shoulder and the happy couple, surrounded by guests, smiled directly into the camera. I shivered. Was I looking at a picture of one ghost or two? I stared out my windshield at the crowds of holiday shoppers, fighting the urge to rest my head against the steering wheel and bawl. Not knowing she had only a few hours more to live, Darlene looked radiant. I promised myself I would try to remember her that way rather than as the pathetic heap of wrinkled flesh that I’d found in her bathtub only a few mornings ago. Sad to think that those curls were now separated from their owner, resting in a sealed plastic evidence bag somewhere with the cops or at the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner in downtown Baltimore.

  I tucked the photo of Daddy and Darlene into my purse, stuffed the others back into the packet with the negatives, and closed the packet up in my glove compartment.

  With no clear plan in mind, I drove across the parking lot, waited for the light to change at Riva Road, turned left, and took the exit to 665 heading toward Baltimore.

  As the car hummed north along I-97, Ms. Bromley’s words lingered in my ears: Pretend to be your father. Think like he’d think.

  Officer Younger told me that Daddy’s rental car had been found in the Blue long-term parking lot. I made the twenty-minute drive in fifteen, pulled up to the turnstile, punched the button for a ticket, and drove into the gigantic parking lot. Now what, Ms. B.?

  For ten minutes, I meandered around the lot looking for a parking space, cursing all holiday travelers and their children and their children’s children. A shuttle bus squealed to a stop in front of me and I waited, tapping the steering wheel impatiently, until everyone had gotten off. I followed a man dragging a small suitcase to his car parked near the chain link fence paralleling the road. After he drove off with a friendly salute in my direction, I pulled into his slot, parked, and stepped out of the car. I locked the door and leaned against a fender.

  OK, Daddy. Where did you go?

  There weren’t many options. He could have walked across the busy highway to the Green lot, but what for? A few lots away was the Park ’n’ Go. Nothing much of interest there, either. If Daddy’d been ambitious, he might have trudged to the Holiday Inn or to the gas station convenience store about a mile down the road, but that didn’t seem very likely.

  As I waited there, thinking, another airport shuttle bus pulled up at a kiosk two rows away. Daddy must have taken the bus! Barring LouElla’s alien acquaintances, there were no other options. I made a dash for the vehicle, but it pulled out just as I got there, so I sat down on the bench, panting, to wait for the next one. In less than five minutes, another bus showed up.

  The doors swooshed open and I climbed aboard, settling into a seat behind the driver, an attractive woman in her early thirties with café-au-lait skin and thick fringed eyelashes. Before the bus could get underway, I showed her the picture. “I’m looking for my father. He may have been here last Saturday night or Sunday morning. Have you seen him?”

  The driver glanced at the picture and shook her head. “Nope.”

  “How many bus drivers are on duty at any given time?”

  She shrugged. “Dunno.” Keeping those lovely lashes trained straight ahead, she eased the bus into gear and pressed down on the accelerator.

  “What’s the best way to get in touch with them?” I asked as the bus lurched forward.

  “Most of the guys are on duty right now.” She took the bus up to ten miles per hour, then began to slow as she approached the next kiosk. “Why don’t you just ask around?”

  “Thanks,” I said. When the bus ground to a halt, I hopped off and sat on the bench in the kiosk, waiting for the next bus to come along.

  I showed Daddy’s picture to every bus driver who stopped at my kiosk. No luck. When the lady with the fringed eyelashes came by again, I hopped on her bus for a ride to the terminal.

  “Any luck?” the driver asked.

  “ ’Fraid not.”

  At the next stop, while she waited for the passengers to heave themselves aboard and stow their luggage in the racks, she said, “Too bad, and Christmas comin’, too.”

  I had to agree.

  She stretched in her seat to glare at someone in the rearview mirror. “Can’t block the doorway!” she yelled. “Move that bag.”

  I got out with the passengers heading for flights on American Airlines, walked through the automatic doors, and just stood there in the Christmas chaos. Someone speaking Cantonese or Swahili announced a gate change, and I nearly got run over by two elderly ladies pushing a luggage cart and a mother with twins in an oversized stroller. A family of six bore down on me with a baggage cart the size of a Volkswagen. I leapt out of the way just in time to keep from being crushed against the red tile wall. “Merry Christmas!” I warbled as they rumbled by me without the slightest twinkle of Christmas in their eyes.

  At Pier C I found a spot out of the traffic and leaned back against the wall near the sunglasses concession, watching the holiday insanity going on all around me and trying not to hyperventilate. What would Daddy do?

  He would have suggested to that ponytailed punk slouched against his suitcase that he straighten up and get a haircut; helped that elderly woman with her shopping bags; patiently explained to that violinist that busking wasn’t allowed, then given him an extravagant wink and dropped a dollar into the hat at his feet; hurled a few expletives deleted at that tour group of boisterous teenagers blocking the aisle so that nobody could get by … and then he’d have a drink.

  But nobody’d seen Daddy at the various bars and restaurants around the airport; in case he’d opted for less intoxicating fare, I checked Starbucks, Cinnabon, and Roy Rogers with equal lack of success.

  On a hunch, I followed a pathway of lights set in the floor to an elevator that took me to the observation deck. I watched two Southwest planes take off, their skins glowing orange and tan in the setting sun. I felt soothed, somehow, by the all-consuming roar of the jets and by the wind, surprisingly warm for this time of year, as it lifted my hair and howled past my ears. But I didn’t feel the presence of my father anywhere there.

  I knew it would be a waste of time to check the airlines and the rental car agencies; the police had been there ahead of me with powers of persuasion far greater than mine. In a funk, I walked all the way to the end of the International Pier and realized Daddy could have taken the light rail all the way to Baltimore, getting off at any one of a number of stops. That got me so depressed that I looked around for a place to sit down, but nobody
had thought to install any benches. No benches! This made me just as mad as it would have made my father. I leaned against the wall and pouted. Then I paced back and forth in front of the fare machines.

  When I stopped fuming long enough to actually look at a fare machine, I threw up my hands in frustration. Even if you knew where you were going, the damn thing was so complicated that even I would have lost patience with it in five seconds flat. There was no way Daddy’d ever have been able to put in the right amount of money, punch the right button, and produce a usable ticket.

  So, what did he do?

  I walked down a level and strolled back along the sidewalk to the baggage claim area, watching curiously as courtesy vans for the various rental cars agencies and local hotels cruised by. Blue-and-yellow SuperShuttles to Washington and Baltimore pulled up on a regular basis. Buses for the satellite parking lots passed me, and taxis came, one after another, and a few limousines. Holy cow! I thought. You can go anywhere from here!

  When the bus to the BWI train station shuddered to a halt in front of me, my heart did a flip-flop. Daddy loved trains. As much as trains had been modernized since he was a lad, he was fond of saying, thank God no one had engineered out that comforting, soothing clack-a-tah, clack-a-tah, clack-a-tah. I stood there like a dummy, staring at the bus. Would Daddy have taken a train? From the BWI train station one could catch an Amtrak train to anywhere on the eastern seaboard. A man could easily lose himself in New York City or Boston or Philadelphia.

  I hopped aboard the courtesy bus and rode the short distance to the train station, where a substantial queue of people jostled each other in their eagerness to board the bus I had just gotten off. I wandered into the station, which was small and nearly square, with enough molded gray plastic seats to accommodate about twenty people. To my left stood a coffee wagon; straight ahead lay the ticket counter.